
FT MEODE 
GenCol1 


^87 

Mar 

.Copy2. 


Pictures By 
BARBARA GABOR 




















































































I 















MARIKA 


























♦ 








MARIKA 

by 

SARI SZEKELY 



Illustrated by 

BARBARA GABOR 


JUNIOR PRESS BOOKS 

ALBERT^HITMAN 

£a v| CO 

CHICAGO 




Dedicated 
to the memory of 
My Father 

who, “after retiring 
from the stage, spent 
his time making 
picture frames with a 
jig saw” 






?<Ln 


Co 


n 




The author wishes to voice her iiv 
debtedness to Miss Elsie Kraft, who 
helped create this brain child. 



Copyright. 1939, by 
ALBERT WHITMAN 6? COMPANY 
Lithographed in the U.S.A. 


API 


©Clfl 1 26729 


-1 1939 











Chapter I 
UTAZUNK 


M ARIKA! Utazunk^r Mrs. Baan called from the bedroom 
door to her little daughter. 

Two sleepy eyes opened; then Marika hopped out of bed as 
quickly as a bird. She was wide-awake and interested at once. 
Utazun\ was one of the few Hungarian words she understood, 
and it means, “We are going on a journey ! 11 

“ Utazun\? Oh, Mother! Are we going very far this time? 
On the train ? 11 questioned Marika eagerly. 

“Yes, dear, and also on a huge ship across the ocean to Europe . 11 
“Mother ! 11 exclaimed Marika, round-eyed, as an idea flashed 
through her tousled head. “Are we really going to Hungary at 
last ? 11 

“We are , 11 replied Mrs. Baan, smiling happily. 

Marika's joy knew no bounds. She had been born in that 
country nine years ago, and was only a tiny baby when her par¬ 
ents brought her to America. Her father was the Hungarian 

[5 ] 









actor, Bela Baan, who had played in the United States for many 
years. As long as Marika could remember, her life had been the 
irregular one of the troupers, as people of the theatre are often 
called. She loved the whirl and adventure of going from place to 
place. 

Now, with delightful plans tumbling about in her head, she 
dressed in half the time she usually needed. Then she perched 
on her little red chair in the living room and watched all that was 
going on around her. 

Mrs. Baan was busy receiving messages, packing bags, and talk' 
ing to newspaper men, who wanted to know all about Mr. Baan's 
European trip. The famous actor was seated at the telephone, 
lost in thought. Marika knew she must be quiet as a mouse, for 
her father was making important plans and was not to be disturbed. 

Marika adored her father. Of course, she also dearly loved 
her mother; she was such a good mother to have. She combed 
Marika's hair very gently, tucked her tenderly into bed every 
night, baked good cookies, and sewed pretty dresses—all for 
Marika. More than that, she could tell wonderful stories about 
Hungary. 

However, it was the world-famous father whom Marika 
adored and held in awe. Mr. Baan had only to raise his eyebrows 
at his little daughter when she was naughty, and the comers of 
her lips drooped and started to tremble. But when he called her 
“Little Squirrel," then she knew that he was pleased with her, 
and she tripped about gaily. 

Marika sat patiently for an hour, until the trunks had been sent 
way and a taxicab waited outside. Then the family left a deserted- 
looking house, and Mr. Baan directed the driver to the station. 
Once there, they boarded the train immediately. 

Nothing pleased Marika more than to sit at the window of a 
speeding train and watch the changing scenes or try to see shapes 

[ 6 ] 



She would sit at the window of a speeding train 





























































in the rolling clouds. Sometimes they made her think of clumsy 
elephants or huge birds. Once she imagined they looked like a 
big factory with tall, smoking chimneys, which a moment later 
seemed to melt into a fairy-like ice palace. 

At night she gazed out at the stars, the Milky Way, and the 
moon. After she lay in her bed, her mind raced along with the 
clatter of the train wheels, hearing in them songs that she hummed 
until they lulled her to sleep. 

"Look, Marika," said Mr. Baan when they arrived at the docks 
after the long train ride. "There is our boat waiting for us." 

Marika looked with wondering eyes. The size of the ship 
amazed her. It was so large that it didn’t seem like a boat at all, 
as long as some blocks and as high as some buildings, it stood there 
strong and steady while excited crowds of people pushed about. 
Men in white caps and coats ran up and down the gangplanks; 
they were the stewards, her mother explained. Calls of "Fresh 
flowers!" and shouted farewells filled the air. Marika kept close 
to her father and mother as they went on deck and down to their 
cabin. 

The next morning she wandered all around to see what a ship 
was like. Soon she was familiar with it all and had made many 
friends. 

Among them were black-haired Pablo and Rosita, who were 
returning to their home in Spain. There was also little blue-eyed 
Betty, traveling to England with her mother and grandfather, a 
serious old gentleman who sat in his deck chair all day, wrapped 
in plaid blankets. 

The four children, Marika, Betty, Pablo, and Rosita, became 
steady companions. Together they walked the decks and had 
many adventures. They made frequent visits to the second deck 
and also to the lowest deck, where the third-class passengers were 
quartered. It was not so clean there. The children were shabby, 

[ 8 ] 


the women tired-looking and carelessly dressed. The men looked 
strange and foreign. 

Down in the boiler room the four friends found Hamsun, 
whose job it was to tend the furnace. Black as he was with coal 
dust, he was not a handsome sight, but he greeted the four with 
a jolly, “Hello there, mates.” Soon they were sitting down, listen¬ 
ing to him tell wonderful stories of the strange countries he had 
visited. The children went to see Hamsun often. 

One day, before going on deck, Marika searched through her 
steamer trunk for a storybook and discovered a box she had never 
seen before, with her name written on it in large letters. 

“Mother, what's this?” 

“A surprise for you.” 

“May I see it?” 

“Not yet, dear. Wait until the night of the masquerade.” 

“A masquerade?” 

“Yes, dear. There is usually an evening on board ship given 
over to a costume party.” 

“Is it my costume? It is—it is! Please let me see it, Mother.” 

Marika pleaded so earnestly that her mother finally allowed 
her to open the box. She quickly removed the cover, and there, 
laid carefully in tissue paper was a little Hungarian peasant cos¬ 
tume: three stiff, white petticoats; a skirt of bright red flowered 
percale; a snug little bodice with short, puffed sleeves; and a pleated 
apron edged with ribbon of the Hungarian national colors: red, 
white, and green. 

“O-o-oh, Mother!” sang Marika, delighted. And the costume 
was out of the box and on Marika as fast as could be. One look 
in the mirror, and Marika skipped out of the cabin to show herself 
on deck. From then on she did not want to wear anything but 
the gay peasant dress. 


[ 9 ] 


Chapter II 

A CHIP OFF THE OLD BLOCK 

The third day out at sea Mother found Marika in the cabin, 
her face pink and wet from crying. 

“What has happened? Why the tears, Marika?” asked Mrs. 
Baan. 

“M—m—mother,” sobbed the little girl, “I’ve been terribly 
insulted.” 

“Insulted! Why, my darling, who insulted you?” 

“Betty's grandfather. He told her not to play with me 'cause 
I'm—I'm a foreigner.” 

“Well, dear, you must not feel so hurt because someone calls 
you a foreigner. After all, you were born in Hungary, you know, 
and that is the native land of your father and mother.” 

Marika thought about that for a minute, her elbows on her 
mother's knees. Then, 

“But I've been in the United States such a long time, and I've 
gone to school there, and everything! I don't feel like a foreigner. 
Why, I was the best speller in my class and the teacher said I led 
everyone in American history!” she boasted. 

[ 10 ] 












mmm 


Marika in her peasant costume 























'That's all true, my dear," comforted Mrs. Baan, "but even 
so, it won't keep some unkind people from calling you a foreigner. 
Never mind, it isn't a disgrace so long as you are loyal to your 
adopted country and obey its laws. You must be proud of both 
America and Hungary." 

"But that wasn't all," continued Marika, as new tears filled 
her eyes and rolled down her round cheeks. "He said dreadful 
things about my father." 

"What did he say?" 

"That Betty's mother is foolish to allow her to play with a 
girl who has been brought up around theatres, and that all actors 
are irre-irresponsible." 

Mrs. Baan dried Marika's eyes. 

"And what was her answer to that?" 

"She told me not to mind the old man." 

"Marika! You surprise me! You must never call Betty's grand' 
father the 'old man.' Haven't I always taught you to be polite 
to older people?" 

"Betty's mother said that. I wouldn't call him an old man 
for the world. Not even if he did insult me." 

"You cry too easily, Marika. You must learn to be strong and 
not to take little hurts so seriously." 

Marika's tears stopped flowing at sight of the candy that her 
mother gave her, and she began eating it almost happily. Almost, 
for her brown eyes had a fanaway look, and a frown was gather¬ 
ing on her forehead. Suddenly she burst forth: 

"Father is not—irre—sponsible, is he, Mother?" 

Mrs. Baan put an arm around Marika. 

"Of course not, child," she replied proudly. "He takes the 
best of care of us, and you know that he is famous all over the 
world and is respected by everyone." 

Marika gravely accepted another piece of candy. 

[ 12 ] 


"Mother, what does that word mean?” 

" 'Irresponsible 1 means careless, unreliable, not to be depended 
upon,” she explained, smiling at the loyal little girl who had cried 
her heart out over a word whose meaning she felt but did not 
know. 

"Why should Betty's grandfather say that all actors are not 
to be depended upon?” continued Marika. 

"They are no more so than men who do other kinds of work. 
No one would say every lawyer was dishonest for instance, just 
because there may be some who are not honest.” 

Mrs. Baan laughed with Marika, but she realized that her little 
daughter would be slow to forget the hurt. However, she thought 
that she knew a way to help her forget. 

"Suppose you invite Rosita and Pablo to a cup of chocolate 
this evening, and perhaps I will tell you some stories.” 

Marika's eyes sparkled. It would be a party! 

"Tell the one about the Piggy and the Wolf! And may I invite 
Betty, too?*" she asked. 

"But her grandfather does not approve of us. Perhaps he con¬ 
siders it wicked even to go to the theatre.” 

"Why should anyone think that, Mother?” asked Marika. 

"I don't know, dear. After all, a play is only a story acted out 
by real people.” 

"And it's much more fun than reading a book.” 

"Yes, Marika, it is great fun, but the theatre is more than a 
place of entertainment. In some ways it is like a museum, where 
the histories and customs of nations are made to live again.” 

"I'll tell that to Betty's grandfather, and I know he'll let her 
come,” exclaimed Marika. Once more sure of herself, she flew out 
of the cabin to invite her little friends. 

Betty did come to the chocolate party, and everyone had a 
merry time. 


[ 13 ] 


On the fifth day at sea, groups everywhere were talking about 
the program for the evening's entertainment. The committee of 
three men approached Mr. Baan and asked him to take part. He 
could not do that, however, for his contract did not allow him to 
perform outside of his regular engagements. With a twinkle in 
his eyes he suggested: 

"I am not the only actor in my family. Perhaps Marika could 
take part instead of me." 

The three men thought it an excellent idea and set out to find 
the little girl. After searching for some time she was discovered, 
to their great surprise, in the boiler room. A black smudge across 
the tip of her nose, she was in deep discussion with Hamsun over 
the workings of the big steamship. 

Marika happily agreed to appear on the program, for there was 
nothing she liked better than acting. So she accepted the in vita' 
tion. Her number would be called "Impersonations, by Marika 
Baan." 

"Ho, ho," remarked Hamsun after the men had left, "so you 
are an actress!" 

"Oh, yes. Ever since I was two weeks old!" admitted Marika, 
very much flattered, and she told him about her first appearance 
on the stage. "I nearly ruined the play. The audience laughed 
and clapped when I kicked my feet out of the pillow." 

Hamsun laughed heartily. He could well understand, for in 
Norway as well as in Hungary little babies are wrapped in pillows. 

That evening, in the dining hall of the big ocean liner, the 
tables were removed, the lights were dimmed, and the audience 
sat waiting for the entertainment to begin. Marika, who had given 
up the beloved Hungarian costume for her prettiest party dress, 
sat in the front row before the stage, her eyes shining and her 
hands clasped tightly in her lap. 

The program began. A girl dressed as a gay gypsy danced a 

[ M] 



A black smudge was across the tip of her nose 























































tarantella or folk dance. A pianist played several numbers. A 
woman wearing a rose-colored velvet gown sang songs from grand 
opera. Pablo, accompanied on the piano by Rosita, played a lovely 
violin solo. 

Then a jolly-looking sailor appeared and sang some rollicking 
songs. The most popular one was about an airman, and the chorus 
of it ran like this: 

I’m an airman, I’m an airman, 

And I fly, fly, fly, fly, fly, 

Way up in the sky, 

Oh, ever so high. 

Swallows cannot catch me, 

No matter how they try. 

I’m an airman, I’m an airman, 

And I fly, fly, fly,, fly, fly. 

The sailor was very funny. He raised his shoulders higher and 
higher each time that he repeated the word fly , and was rewarded 
by a roar of laughter from the audience. Again and again he was 
called back to sing it. He made a great hit, especially with Marika. 
She was just thinking that whoever followed him would have to 
work very hard when she heard the announcement, “Impersona- 
tions, by Marika BaanT 

Her heart leaped. She felt suddenly weak and in the pit of 
her stomach she had a heavy, dull pain. Slowly she walked up on 
the stage. How very, very small she felt. 

But that lasted only a minute. For among the blur of faces 
her eyes found those of her father. He was looking at her with 
great confidence, as if to say, “Go ahead, Marika, and do your 
best/' 

She must not fail him. 

She began by personifying stage and screen stars. The audi¬ 
ence clapped generously, which encouraged her to go on. 

“Ladies and gentlemen/’ she announced, stepping forward. “If 

[ 16 ] 


you please, I will imitate someone you have all seen and enjoyed/' 

To the surprise of everyone, Marika sang, just as the sailor 
had, the song about the airman, even though she had heard it for 
the first time that evening. The passengers cheered and called for 
more. 

In replying, her voice betrayed an added thrill. 

"My father, as you know, cannot appear, but I should like to 
impersonate him in a scene from one of his greatest successes." 

She followed with the difficult lines from a play by Shakespeare 
in which the character Hamlet talks to himself. The audience was 
greatly surprised. Many of them had seen the famous Bela Baan 
play that part. They were astonished that Marika could imitate 
so exactly his voice, his expressions, his slight foreign way of speak' 
ing, and also the habit of raising his right eyebrow. She did not 
see the tears of joy in her father’s eyes. 

The audience stood on chairs and shouted for more, but Ma' 
rika was tired. The jolly sailor lifted her to his shoulder and can 
ried her off the stage. People crowded around and praised her; 
even Betty’s grandfather smiled and shook her hand. But her 
greatest happiness came when she heard people remark: “Her 
father’s daughter! A chip ofF the old block.’’ 

In their cabin Mr. Baan took his little girl in his arms. 

“Little Squirrel,’’ he whispered, “you were great!’’ 

And Marika went happily to sleep, for she knew she had made 
her adored father proud of her. 



Chapter III 
NAGYMAMA 

All too soon the pleasant days on the ocean came to an end, 
and it was time for Marika to bid good-by to her friends. While 
the passengers gathered along the ship's railing to watch the shore¬ 
line of France become more and more distinct, she stole down to 
the boiler room to say good-by to Hamsun. 

“So you're going to Hungary?” asked the big fellow. He 
wiped his hand and held it out to her. 

“Yes,” she answered, “but only for a year. We'll be going 
back to the United States next spring.” 

“You've been a good sailor, Miss Marika. I hope you'll take 
this same ship on your way home and come to see me again.” 

“Thank you, Hamsun. I hope I can. Good-by, Hamsun!” 
And with that she rushed to the deck where Father and Mother 
were waiting for her. 

Whistles shrieked; there was a grinding noise, and the boat 
slowly came to a stop at the pier. Gangplanks were lowered, and 
in a few minutes the people who had been so happy together for 
a week had scattered in all directions. 


[ 18 ] 









“So you re going to Hungary?” asked the big fellow 



















The Baan family boarded a cross'continental express which 
would carry them directly from the French port of Cherbourg to 
Hungary. They rode by themselves in a compartment, which is a 
private section of the train. 

“Ho—hum,” sighed Marika on the second day. “I like train 
rides much better when they don’t last so long.” 

“Be patient, dear. Tomorrow morning we’ll reach the Hun' 
garian border,” encouraged Mrs. Baan. 

So Marika sat by the window once more. When the train took 
her where she could see men or women or children, she noticed 
them carefully and compared them with people she had seen in 
the other countries through which she had passed. She did the 
same with buildings and the scenes in general. She hoped this 
would help her remember what she was seeing, but she called it 
playing a game with herself. 

On the morning of the third day the train came to a stop. 

“Marika, look!” cried Mr. Baan, pointing out of the window, 
“there is the Hungarian flag!” 

Yes, indeed. There it was—red, white, and green—flying from 
the top of the customs house near the station. At the sight of it 
Marika could not feel the thrill that appeared on the faces of her 
parents. She was too young to understand what it meant for peo¬ 
ple who had spent years in foreign countries to come home, to see 
familiar landmarks, and to hear the mother tongue spoken once 
more. 

“Jo reggelt!" shouted a fat man, opening the compartment 
door. Marika remembered the phrase. It means, “Good mom' 
ing.” 

“Jo reggelt," answered Mr. Baan. 

The fat man wore a uniform. He was not a soldier, as Marika 
first imagined, but a customs officer. He opened the baggage and 
carelessly pulled out everything. All the while he marked num- 

[ 20 ] 


bers in a little black book. Finally he added them up and handed 
a bill to Mr. Baan, who offered American money in payment of 
the amount. But the man shook his head and said that he could 
not accept American money; Mr. Baan would have to step off the 
train and exchange it for Hungarian money at the station. 

"What did he want?" asked Marika. 

Mother explained it to her. There were certain articles on 
which it was necessary to pay a duty or tax, before taking them 
into the country. 

"Well, he could have been more careful with our things!" 
Marika observed, turning back to the window from where she 
saw her father enter the station. 

Five minutes passed-ten minutes-No daddy came 

out. 

"Why doesn't he come?" asked Marika. 

"He probably has to wait. There may be others who have 
money to exchange," replied Mother. 

With a troubled heart Marika noticed the usual things that 
mean it's starting time for a train. The conductor waved his flag 
and shouted something. She decided it must mean "All aboard!" 
She was right. People who had been standing and walking about, 
hopped on the train at once. 

"Oh, Mother!" exclaimed Marika, her eyes wide and anxious. 
"Daddy'll miss the train!" 

The big engine whistled long and loud and began to chug, 
slowly at first. The train was moving very slowly, but nevertheless 
moving. Marika still could not see her father. Her heart stopped 
beating for a second. Her adored daddy was being left behind! 
She began to cry. Mrs. Baan turned pale. For a moment she pic' 
tured herself and Marika sitting sadly on their trunks at the next 
station, wondering whether Daddy could find them there. 

At last Marika spied her father running from the station. His 

[21 ] 


coat was flying behind him; his arms were full of paper money. 
The customs officer who had been waiting to be paid, followed 
along, puffing and shouting loudly. Mr. Baan threw a handful of 
bills toward him, and as they scattered to the ground, the fat man 
stooped and picked them up. 

Mrs. Baan and Marika breathlessly watched at the window. 
Would Father catch up with them? Just then, as the train rounded 
a curve, they saw him reach the last coach and jump on the steps. 

In a few minutes he entered the compartment, breathing hard. 
Marika jumped happily into his arms and exclaimed, “Oh, Daddy, 
I was so scared. I thought sure you’d be left behind. What would 
Mother and I do without you?” 

Though Mr. and Mrs. Baan laughed heartily over his almost 
having been left behind, Marika did not think it was funny. “I 
don’t know whether I’ll like this country,” she thought, but she 
did not say it aloud for fear of hurting her parents. She glanced 
at their faces and noticed their satisfied look, their shining eyes. 
They were at home again! 

In a few more hours the Baan family came to the end of their 
journey on the express. 

“Little Squirrel,” whispered Mr. Baan as he lifted Marika off 
the steps of the train, “do you realize that this is the first time you 
have ever set foot on Hungarian soil?” 

But Marika could not realize it. She was too tired to think 
about anything. Her mother quickly replied for her. 

“Of course it is, Daddy,” she said. “When Marika was here 
before, she was so tiny that we carried her around in pillows. 
Remember?” 

“Indeed I do.” Mr. Baan smiled fondly at his young daughter, 
but the smile quickly changed to a look of concern. “Why, what’s 
the matter, Marika?” 


[ 22 ] 



Lrj 


mfM 

m 
















Ijpj 

Vlfe-atS 




The fat man stooped and picked them up 






















































“I feel awfully queer. My head is so light, and the ground 
is moving out from under my feet. 1 ' 

“That is only natural, after eleven days of travel ,' 1 suggested 
Daddy. “Do you think you can stand another ride? You see, 
Marika, we must go on for a short distance before we reach Grand' 
mother Baan's house." 

Marika felt better by the time the local train lazily pulled into 
the station. After the speed of the rushing express this train 
seemed hardly to crawl along. It had a tiny engine and the coaches 
were very small, much smaller than those in America. They were 
marked with the letters M.A.V., meaning Magyar Allam Vasut— 
Hungarian Government Railways—and were divided into com' 
partments marked I, II, or III. 

The Baan family entered a compartment marked I, and made 
themselves comfortable on seats of red plush with clean white 
towels spread on the arms and head'rests. Marika sat with her 
parents for a while and then to satisfy her curiosity, she wandered 
up and down the long corridor. 

She heard a lively clatter of voices in one of the compartments, 
and dared to peep in. What she saw was women in short full skirts, 
their heads covered with bright kerchiefs, sitting crowded on 
wooden benches. On their laps they held huge wicker baskets. 
Men, wearing boots and white linen trousers gathered in at the 
waist, stood about in close groups. Marika could not understand 
the friendly chatter, but she saw that the faces of those people 
were simple and kindly. One of the women held a big red apple 
toward her, which she promptly accepted with a smile of thanks. 

A few minutes later Marika said to her mother, “See the apple 
a woman gave me? She was wearing a costume just like mine." 

“She wasn't wearing a costume, Marika. That was her every' 
day dress." 

“Does everyone in Hungary dress like that?" 

[ 24 ] 


No, dear. Most of the people here dress much like the Ameri¬ 
cans. But the peasants still wear the same kind of clothes their 
grandparents wore.” 

And do only peasants sit on the wooden benches in trains?” 

Yes. The numbers which you saw on the outside of the com- 
partments mark the different classes. Peasants ride in the third 
class, people who can pay more money go in the second class, and 
those who can afford luxuries ride first class.” 

Marika sat down on the red plush seat and as she gazed lazily 
through the window, she thought about this custom of grouping 
people into classes, and about peasants, and big red apples. Her 
thoughts wandered to the grandmother whom she had never seen. 
Soon her eyes felt heavy'lidded. As she began to nod, she remem- 
bered that she had always envied children who could visit their 
grandparents. What—would her—grandmother—be—like? 

The next thing Marika knew, Father was saying to her: 

“This is the town where we get off, Little Squirrel. This is 
where Grandmother lives.” 

Marika was wide-awake in a moment. Father quickly gathered 
the luggage, and the Baan family left the train. In a few more min¬ 
utes they stood at the door of Grandmother’s house. 

Marika was just about to close her eyes tight and try once 
more to imagine what Grandmother would look like when the 
door was opened by a sweet little old lady. Her hair was white, 
and in her eyes was the same merry twinkle that Marika loved in 
her father’s eyes. She wore a black silk dress with white collar and 
cuffs and at her throat was a brooch with Marika’s baby picture 
on it. 

Then and there Marika knew that Grandmother looked just 
as she had always hoped her grandmother might look. Grand¬ 
mother drew Marika into her arms and lovingly kissed her and 
smoothed her hair. 


[ 25 ] 



“Oh, I like hen” Marika decided instantly, and wanted to tell 
her so. But the little grandmother could not speak English, and 
Marika did not know enough Hungarian words. So she just said. 
“ Nagymama!" which means “Grandmother,” and hoped that it 
expressed all she felt. 






































Chapter IV 

THE FAMOUS GRANDFATHER 

The rooms in Grandmother’s house were so high that Marika 
felt very small in them. All the doors were double ones, which she 
delighted in swinging open. One door, however, was always 
closed. Marika stopped before it wonderingly. What was behind 
it? Did she dare open it? She reasoned: if it was forbidden for 
anyone to enter, the door would be locked. Marika tried the 
knob. It turned. She opened the door slowly, glanced within, 
and then stepped inside. She knew immediately that this room 
once must have belonged to someone now gone. Her first thought 
was to close the door again and run into the sunshine, but the dim, 
silent room fascinated her, and she remained. 

Facing her on the opposite wall was an immense life-sized paint" 
ing of a man. At first Marika thought it was her father. Looking 
more closely, she saw that it was an older man with gray hair and 
a kindly, wistful face. 

He wore a splendid red velvet coat and tight-fitting black 
trousers richly braided with gold. From his shoulders hung a man- 
[ 27 ] 




tie or long coat trimmed with costly fur and held in place by 
jeweled clasps. His patent leather boots were edged at the top 
with gold cord, and two gold tassels dangled at the front. In one 
hand he held a beautiful sword set with many precious stones, 
and in the other a cap trimmed as richly as the mantle with fur 
and jewels. 

Marika walked close to the painting to read the name engraved 
on a tiny plate under the frame—Baan Sandor. She remembered 
that once her mother had told her that Hungarians always place 
the family name first. 

Tacked on the wall, over and around the picture, were wide 
ribbons tied in huge bows. Most were red, but others were green 
or blue, and many had the red, white, and green of the Hungarian 
flag. On all of them was black or gold lettering and, although the 
dates differed, each read the same—Baan Sandor-##^, To Sandor 
Baan. 

"This," thought Marika, "must be my famous grandfather 
about whom I have heard so many stories." 

There he was, all around the room, in pictures of every size. 
Each one showed him as a different character, for he had been a 
famous actor too, just like her father. The pictures hung in fancy 
hand-made frames. 

Marika knew that after retiring from the stage, Grandfather 
had spent his time making picture frames with a jigsaw. These 
then, were some of the frames he had made. Marika looked closely 
at one or two of them and then crossed the room, where she saw 
silver wreaths under glass cases and large and small trophy cups 
on a shelf. 

After studying the pictures and the bric-a-brac, without touch¬ 
ing anything, she slowly walked out of the room and shut the door 
quietly behind her. Then she ran into the sunny garden where 
everything was bright and cheerful. 

[ 28 ] 


Grandmother's house was of whitewashed stucco, almost hid- 
den behind a mass of climbing roses in full bloom. The entrance 
to the house was at the side, and the windows of the front room 
faced the street. Before the house, and twice the width of it, was 
a beautiful and sweet-smelling flower garden. In it were as many 
different kinds of flowers as Marika had ever seen. And many, 
many bushes of roses. She wandered about and counted them—• 
seventy—and some almost as tall as trees! 

A narrow path divided the flower garden into two equal parts 
and ran between the house and the vegetable garden back to the 
chicken coop. Marika followed this path to a white arbor covered 
with a grapevine, which kept it delightfully cool. 

“Here," she thought, “I can play with my dolls when it is too 
hot outside." 

It took her almost the entire morning to see everything in the 
garden. There were onions, tomatoes, peas, potatoes, beans, rows 
of cucumber mounds, and crawling vines of squash. There was 
even a patch of ripe strawberries, and raspberry bushes made a 
natural fence. There were fruit trees of every kind: apple, peach, 
pear, and plum, delicious apricots, sweet and sour cherries, and 
some walnut and almond trees. 

A high iron fence enclosed everything, and a small gate led 
to the street. Marika was curious to know what was beyond the 
gate. She went to it and peered through the bars. 

A little boy was whistling and busily rolling a yellow hoop. 
Up and down he skipped, and Marika watched the hoop long¬ 
ingly. That looked like fun, she thought, and besides, she would 
like a playmate. She watched him for a few minutes and then 
called, “Hello!" in a hopeful voice. 

The little boy stood still, stopped his whistling, and the yellow 
hoop fell to the sidewalk. He looked around to see who had 
called, and discovered Marika pressed close to the bars of the 
[ 29 ] 



gate. For a moment the boy and the girl just looked at each other. 
The boy was in short blue trousers and a sleeveless sweater; his 
hair was tousled, his face freckled. Marika thought she had never 
seen a face so full of mischief. Evidently the boy had not under¬ 
stood her, for he looked puzzled. 

“Hello!” repeated Marika. 

The little boy laughed and pleasantly replied, “ Szervusz!" 

That must be a greeting, Marika decided, and came through 
the gate. When she pointed to the hoop, the boy seemed to un¬ 
derstand that she wanted it and gave it to her. It was not such 
an easy thing to do, this hoop-rolling. Although the boy ex¬ 
plained it at great length, Marika could not understand a word. 

Soon, however, she could roll the hoop back and forth. But 
the boy did not think it was much fun to stand by while Marika 
played. His eyes grew more mischievous, and the next time 
Marika rolled the hoop past him, he gave it a push that sent it 
flying. 


[ 30 ] 

















The yellow hoop fell to the sidewalk 












Marika almost went flying, too. She looked at the boy, sup 
prised, and then ran to pick up the hoop. The boy ran quietly 
after her, and pulled her brown braid. That puzzled Marika. Why 
should he do things like that? She tried to roll the hoop again, 
but the boy continued to tease. 

That decided Marika. If he would not play fairly, she would 
have nothing more to do with him. And she certainly would not 
allow her hair to be pulled. She gave him the hoop and turned 
to the gate. The boy looked after her with a naughty grin and 
shouted. Probably he was calling her back, but she ran to the 
arbor, where she found her mother and grandmother setting the 
table for the noonday meal. 

" Szervusz , Nagy mama!" she called, proud to use the new 
word she had just learned. Mother frowned, but Grandmother 
only laughed. 

"Oh, Marika," corrected Mrs. Baan, "you should be more 
careful with your greetings. When you speak to Grandmother, 
or anyone very much older than yourself, you must say Kezet 
cso{olom! — I kiss your hand. When you speak to strangers, you 
use Jo reggelt — good morning, Jo napot — good day, Jo estet — 
good evening, or Jo ejszakat — good night, depending on the time 
of day it happens to be. Szervusz is the greeting for friends of 
your own age, like the English 'hello/ which is used only in 
telephone conversations here." 

"Oh!" exclaimed Marika. "Now I know why the boy laughed 
when I said, 'Hello/ " 

Little by little Marika learned the language which was so very 
strange to her ears at first. Soon she could talk quite easily with 
the mischievous boy, who had the odd name of Kabosh Imre. 
They played together often, but when he became too provoking, 
Marika returned to the garden or played by herself in the cool 
arbor. 


[ 32 ] 


Chapter V 

THE PINTER HOUSE 

“Marika, dear,” said Grandmother one morning, “will you 
gather the eggs for me, please?” 

That was Marika’s favorite task, and she ran willingly down 
to the small enclosure where the chickens were scratching for 
grain. At the gate of the chicken yard, she stopped. What was 
that noise she heard? She waited, listening. Yes! She heard it a 
second time and the eggs were forgotten at once. 

Marika went around the yard to the back of the chicken coop. 
There, beside an old box, as if guarding it, sat a little white dog 
with black and brown spots. She ran to Marika and tugged at the 
edge of her skirt, pulling her toward the box. 

“O—o—oh! What darling little puppies! One, two, three— 
six of them!” 

They were wriggling and scrambling on top of each other, 
and the mother dog gently but firmly pushed them about with her 
nose until they had found comfortable places. She looked at 
Marika with pleading eyes. 


[ 33 ] 


“I know what you want," exclaimed Marika, patting the dog's 
head. “Now you wait here, I'll be right back.'' 

Into the house she ran as fast as her legs could carry her. 

“Oh, Mother! Mother! Guess what I've found! Come, come 

quick! The dearest little puppies-six of them-there, be- 

hind the chicken coop.'' 

She filled the biggest bowl she could find with milk, and hur¬ 
ried out, followed by Mother and Grandmother. 

“I wonder where she came from," said Grandmother while 
the dog was eating. “I don't remember ever seeing her in this 
neighborhood." 

“May I keep all of them, Nagymama ?" Marika begged. 

“Well, if no one claims them—- — But you must take care of 
them yourself." 

Marika was so delighted that she threw her arms around 
Grandmother's neck and gave her a big kiss. 

“May I take her to Lake Balaton in August when we go?" 
she asked eagerly. 

“Yes, but we must find homes for the puppies before then." 

Then Marika sat down to choose a name for her dog. And 
what it should be, she couldn't think. None of the usual names 
were good enough for this dog that had six puppies. She thought 
and thought, and finally a word she had heard her father use while 
playing cards came into her mind—Ultimo. She didn't know what 
it meant. What difference did that make? But it sounded very 
fine. So she named her dog Ultimo. 

It was the end of July. Marika, with her mother, father, and 
grandmother, had arrived at the little village near Lake Balaton 
to spend the month of August. They were living, not in a hotel 
but in a real peasant cottage, which was owned by the Pinter 
family: Pinter bacsi -Uncle Pinter, Pinter neni -Aunt Pin¬ 

ter, and two daughters, Terka and Katica. Finally, there was 

[ 34 ] 



A well was in the center 













































































Bodri, the big brown shepherd dog, who became Ultimo’s good 
friend, for of course Marika had brought Ultimo along. The 
puppies had all been placed in kind homes. 

Hungarian village life was a new joy for Marika, who had been 
brought up in busy cities and Pullman cars. Never before had 
she had such a yard in which to play. A genies kut , a well, was 
in the center, with a trough for the horses and cows. Pigs and 
chickens ran helter-skelter right under her feet. One side of this 
yard was fenced off for a flower garden. Under a big plum tree 
stood the simple table and benches. Here dinner was served every 
noon. Sometimes when the wind blew, plums fell from the 

branches-splash!-into the soup plates. And how Marika 

liked the half-ripe fruit! 

The other side of the yard was shaded by an immense mulberry 
tree, which Marika was allowed to climb. It was great fun to 
gather the sweet berries and eat them as fast as she could. The 
juice of the mulberries stained her face a deep purple, and at times 
dripped down on her dress. 

She also picked the mulberry leaves for Katica’s silkworms, and 
watched the caterpillars wind themselves into golden cocoons. 

Most interesting of all was the little thatched roof cottage, 
whose small windows, bright with red geranium plants, looked out 
on the quiet street. Like Grandmother’s house, the cottage was 
built lengthwise across one side of the lot. A terrace ran the full 
length of the building. Along the wall was a low straw cot where 
Pinter bacsi slept during those months when the cottage was 
given over to city visitors. 

Separate doors led from the terrace to the various rooms. 
Marika liked especially the door to the kitchen, for it was dif¬ 
ferent from any she had ever seen. It was in two sections. The 
upper part stood wide open to let the sunshine in; the lower part 
remained closed to keep the chickens and the pigs out. Around 

[ 36 ] 


this door hung dried red peppers, dried ears of yellow corn, and 
braided ropes of onion and garlic. 

Within the kitchen, pottery with designs of flowers and birds 
hung on the white walls; and lined up on the built-in shelves were 
heavy iron pots, strange kitchen tools, and jugs of all sizes. Marika 
had a difficult time with one odd-shaped jug, for it had no open¬ 
ing, and she could drink water only through a small lip on the 
hollow handle. 

Then there was the stove of clay, built as part of the wall. 
Marika loved to watch the fire through the small opening of the 
black iron door. The baking was done in a large oven between 
the walls. It had a wide mouth covered by a wooden lid. Brush¬ 
wood and turf were burned as fuel. When Pinter neni baked the 
great round loaves of bread, she always made a small langos or 
pancake, out of a piece of the flattened dough, especially for 
Marika. 

At the front of the house was the guest room, the pride of 
the household. And it may well have been called that, for there 
was not a dull spot anywhere. The room had no flooring, but 
yellow clay had been pounded to a hard surface. On the white¬ 
washed walls hung the best pottery and pictures of the saints. 
There was also a large portrait of Pinter bacsi. Marika could not 
help laughing at it, for she always saw him in comfortable, loose 
clothes, while in this picture he wore a tight soldier's uniform and 
looked stiff and frightened. His mustache was waxed to a needle 
point; his hair, parted in the middle and carefully brushed. 

Brightly painted and elaborately carved furniture was placed 
in exact order against the walls. A bench and table were built 
into one corner. “This is like the breakfast nook we had in 
New York,” declared Marika. 

In another comer was the bubos kemencze , which served as 
a stove and was the only means of heating the room. It nearly 

[ 37 ] 



touched the ceiling. To Marika it was mysterious, for it had no 
door or opening of any kind. She found out that the fire was fed 
through an opening in the kitchen wall. All around the bubos 
Xemencze was a clay bench. On cool evenings it must have been 
cozy to sit there with one’s back to the warm stove. 

Between the windows was the tulipdnos lada , a chest, so 
called because of the tulip decorations. The same flowers were 
painted on the chairs and the small dresser between the two beds. 

As the guest room was the pride of the household, so the two 
beds were the pride of the guest room. They were placed against 
the wall opposite the door, and matched the table and tulipdnos 
tdda. The amazing thing was the bedding, piled high on top, 
reaching almost to the brown beams of the ceiling. Huge pillows 
in embroidered slips were arranged very carefully on the very top. 
Marika was informed that the number of pillows indicated 
whether a family was rich or poor. 

[ 38 ] 














t 


In another corner was the stove 










































What worried her was how anyone could possibly sleep in 
those beds. There was hardly space enough between the pillows 
and the ceiling for her doll. And surely one would need a step" 
ladder to reach the top. 

The problem was solved the very first night. The pillows, 
which were for decoration only, rested on a light board that 
stretched from one end of the bed to the other. Board and pillows 
were lifted off; then the bedspread was removed. A large pillow, 
wide as the bed, with a pink gingham slip, and an enormous 
dunyha , which is a featherbed, smiled at Marika invitingly. 

But she was frightened. She might be smothered under that 
huge cover! She crawled under to try it and was astonished to 
find that it was not even as heavy as a woolen blanket. It was 
filled, Pinter neni proudly stated, with down from her finest 
geese. 

Lying wide-eyed in her snug bed under the towering dunyha , 
Marika thought of all the queer and interesting things in the 
cottage. The room was in half darkness. The small kerosene lamp 
flickered on the table. Now and then the clock struck solemnly. 












BALATON 

How different from roaring city nights were the quiet eve' 
nings in the little village! A peaceful calm filled the air. Even the 
breezes were hushed. When the Angelus bell rang out from the 
church tower, the people stopped their work for a few minutes 
of silent prayer. 

Early every evening the cattle returned from the pastures. As 
soon as Marika heard the first faint tinkle of the cowbells far 
down the road, she ran to the gate. 

The pasztor, who was the herdsman, followed the herd, crack' 
ing his long whip to keep the slowly moving cattle on the road. 
As he passed Marika, he humbly lifted his hat and quietly said, 
"Dicsertessef{!" the first word of their regular greeting, meaning, 
“Praised be the Lord.” 

It pleased Marika to see how each long'homed cow recognized 
its home and entered the open gate. 

Long after the herd had been swallowed up in hazy clouds 
of dust, she could hear the distant echo of the cowbells. 

[41 ] 



A gentle wind began to blow. It brought the strains of music; 
gypsies were playing in the csdrda , the inn. The trees became dim 
shadows in the darkness. Lights twinkled in cottage windows. 
Night had fallen, and Marika went into the house. 

On Sundays, Marika watched the peasants flock to church. 
Then the street was as gay and colorful as Grandmother's flower 
garden. The girls swung along in separate groups, their full skirts 
swaying from side to side. Each one carried a prayer book and a 
large, embroidered handkerchief stiffly starched and carefully 
folded. There long braids were decorated with many colored rib- 
bons, and their pretty papucs , or slippers, clitter clattered on the 
pavements. 

The young men walked along importantly. They wore little 
round hats with sprays of maidenhair fern tucked in on the left 
side, and their black boots shone as brightly as mirrors. Indeed, 
Marika had seen more than one lad glance slyly down and give a 
final twist to his carefully waxed mustache. 

The older men and women looked more solemn in their darker 
colors. But they, too, walked along in merry, friendly groups. 

One Sunday afternoon Marika and her mother went to the 
park to hear the military band concert. Part of the time, while 
listening to the music, they wandered about, and Marika noticed 
many smartly dressed women and children. 

Her mother said that they probably stayed at the beautiful 
hotels and added that people from all over the world came here 
in order to enjoy the health-giving waters of the Balaton. After 
a while Marika and her mother sat under a bright umbrella and 
ate what Marika thought was the most delicious vanilla ice cream 
she had ever tasted. 

And what jolly times Marika did have on week days! There 
were such exciting things to do with Katica, Bodri, and Ultimo. 
Sometimes they spent the mornings rolling down the haystacks. 

[ 42 ] 



Marika watched the peasants flock to church 













































Sometimes Terka who was a little older, came along, and then 
they drove to the vineyards and picked ripe grapes and sweet yeb 
low muskmelons. 

Then, too, the beach of Lake Balaton was a wonderful play' 
ground. The Balaton is the largest lake in Hungary. One cannot 
see from one shore to the other, and it is more than twice as long 
as it is wide. Ships carry passengers from port to port. 

The beach was not far from the Pinter house, and the chib 
dren loved to play on the sand. Ultimo was always there, too. She 
refused to stay at home. 

One afternoon the little dog played with the children by swim' 
ming out in the lake to bring back sticks they threw into the 
water. Afterwards Marika and her friends went in swimming, and 
Ultimo tried to bring them in, too! 

“No, no, Ultimo!” laughed Marika. “Don’t pull me out! I 
want to swim!” 

But Ultimo insisted upon dragging the children from the lake. 

“Such a dog!” sighed Katica. “We can never have a good swim 
when she is along. Let’s leave her at home next time.” 

“Oh, no, we can’t do that,” replied Marika. “She would howl 
and howl.” 

“I know what,” said Katica. “We’ll tie Ultimo to the boat 
landing. Then she can’t jump in after us.” 

So with a piece of rope they tied the dog to the boat landing, 
and every time poor Ultimo wanted to run after them, she was 
jerked back. When Marika finally untied the rope, the dog was 
so happy that she nearly knocked over the dripping little girl. 

A few mornings later it was hot and sultry. Katica had to 
husk beans for Pinter netii, and Marika was helping her. At first 
she enjoyed the work, but it soon became dull. 

She decided to go for a swim in the lake, and almost imrne' 
diately she and Ultimo raced to the beach. As usual, she tied the 
[44 ] 


dog to the boat landing; then she waded into the cool water. 

Ultimo sat quietly while her mistress splashed and played along 
the beach, but barked sharply later when she pushed a small boat 
into the water. Marika drifted about happily for some time on 
the smooth surface of the lake. Then—a sudden wind whipped 
the quiet water into waves. 

The light boat upset without warning, and Marika was thrown 
into the water. She laughed, and with no thought of failure, 
started to swim toward the boat landing. But she soon found the 
waves surprisingly strong. Though she swam and swam, she 
seemed to get no nearer shore. 

Her arms began to tire, and she thought, “How silly of me to 
work so hard. Fm not far out. IT1 walk in!*’"’ Her toes searched 
for the bottom of the lake but touched only swaying weeds. The 
water was over her head! She bravely began to swim again. 
Gradually she moved her arms more and more slowly, for they 
were becoming, very, very tired. 

Fear gripped her heart. She called, “Help! 11 Then she remem- 
bered the Hungarian word, “SegitsegT But her cries were lost 
in the wind. One pair of ears however could hear her; one pair 
of eyes could see her—Ultimo's! But in spite of wild efforts, the 
dog could not swim to the rescue of her beloved mistress, for the 
rope held her back. 

Marika sank down. The wavy seaweeds at the bottom of the 
lake frightened her. Several large fish brushed by her. Water 
filled her eyes and mouth. She struggled to the surface, only to 
go down a second time. Again she struggled to the surface. 

“Segit—segT she gasped. 

But there was no one near. Ultimo barked violently. She 
leaped toward the water, only to be pulled back by the rope. 
Again and again she rushed headlong, tugging, tearing— 

Marika went down the third time. Pictures chased each other 

[ 45 ] 


rapidly through her now sleepy brain. Mother—weeping. Grand' 
mother—heartbroken. And her—adored—Daddy— 

She hardly noticed it when a strong jaw firmly gripped her 
bathing suit. Ultimo had finally broken the rope and dragged 
Marika back to shore. 

She lay quietly on the sand for a while, glad to rest and breathe 
in the good air. Ultimo jumped and barked joyfully about her. 
After a time she reached out her hand and patted Ultimo on the 
head. 

“Thank you, Ultimo,” she whispered. “Good dog.” She 
thought for a minute, then added, “We won't tell anyone about 
this, will we, Ultimo? They might not let us play here if they 
knew. But you will never be tied up any more, I promise you 
that!” 
















Chapter VII 
BUDAPEST 

In September the Baan family went to Budapest. Sorrowfully, 
Marika left the pretty village and the Balaton behind her. 

One day, standing with her mother before the National The' 
atre, Marika pointed to a round tower-like building near by. 
“Oh, Mother! What’s that?” 

“That’s a signpost on which the daily programs of theatres 
and amusement places are advertised. They are located at con¬ 
venient places, wherever people might have to wait for street 
cars.” 

“I never saw any like that in America.” 

“No. Large billboards are used for advertisements there. 
These towers look better, and also prevent the buildings from 
being cluttered up with posters.” 

They walked nearer to the tower. A man had just put up 
some new signs, and Marika’s heart swelled when she saw her 
father’s name in large black type on that very tower. 

[ 47 ] 
















“Can you tell me in English what is printed on that poster, 
Marika?’'’ 

“Of course I can. It says: 

BAAN BELA 
The Great Tragedian 
Back from His Triumphs 
in 

The United States 

“Well,” replied Mother, very much pleased, “by the time we 
are ready to return to America, you will read and speak Hungarian 
as well as you do English. I think you deserve a reward. What 
would you say if we’d go on a sight-seeing trip while Daddy is 
rehearsing?” 

“Oh, yes. Let’s do that.” 

Mrs. Baan hailed a cab from the other side of the street. It 
was not an automobile, but an old-fashioned, horse-driven coach. 
Marika stared, round-eyed. High on the driver’s seat sat an old 
man with a grey mustache and blinking, red-rimmed eyes. He 
was wearing a small round hat, which he politely lifted as he 
climbed down. He stood aside while Marika and her mother took 
their places on the back seat. 

To the clanking of the horses’ hoofs, the old man began to 
mumble and grumble. Marika could not understand a word, for 
his long mustache completely covered his lips. Mrs. Baan ex¬ 
plained that the poor old man was complaining because the 
people wanted motor cabs, and he would soon have to go out of 
business for want of passengers. 

“Isn’t that sad,” sighed Marika. “I think it’s great fun to ride 
in a horse cab. I can see everything much better. Automobiles* 
go so fast that the streets seem to fly.” 

As the horses slowly trotted over the cobblestones, Mother 
showed Marika the different places of interest. First they passed 
[ 48 ] 


the New York Cafe, a favorite meeting place for people from the 
theatres. Then they traveled through the Octagon, an eight" 
sided park, surrounded by beautiful buildings. They passed the 
NyugathPalyaudvar, which is the Western Depot; the wonderful 
Vig'szinhaz, or Gayety Theatre; and finally they reached the bank 
of a wide river. It was the beautiful blue Danube, made famous 
by the Viennese composer, Johann Strauss. The Hungarians call 
it Duna. 

Marika learned that Budapest is really two cities divided by 
that lazily rolling river: Buda, the older of the two, on the right 
bank, and Pest on the left. Many wonderful bridges connect them. 
The oldest of the bridges is the great Lane* Hid, the Chain Bridge; 
the longest is the Margit Hid, or Margaret Bridge. Then there 
are the Erzsebet Hid, Elisabeth Bridge; the Ferencs Jossef Hid, 
Frans Joseph Bridge; and others on which the trains cross. 

Marika and her mother drove to the Margit Hid. There they 
discharged the cab driver; then walked across a small footbridge 
which led from the center of the Margit Hid to an island 
in the middle of the Danube. This is called Margit Ssiget, or 
Margit Island. It is a health resort and one of the most beautiful 
spots in the Hungarian capital. 

Marika and her mother wandered through the parks, the rose 
gardens, and the cool arbors. Under a group of great oak trees 
they saw a statue of Arany Janos, the Hungarian poet, who wrote 
some of his most famous poems there. They visited the grey 
ruins, which remained to tell of past history. Then they walked 
through the gay amusement parks and bathing beaches. In a 
kiosk, a gay building with open sides, they ate ice cream, which 
of course pleased Marika very much. 

“Oh, I almost forgot!" exclaimed Mrs. Baan as they left the 
pretty kiosk. “I promised to call up Daddy. Wait for me here, 
Marika, while I find a telephone." 

[49 ] 



Marika, left alone, walked down the path. All along the way, 
benches were placed conveniently. Old ladies were sunning them' 
selves; old gentlemen were reading their newspapers. Marika sat 
down, too. Almost at once an old, poorly dressed woman ap^ 
proached her and asked for money. 

Marika supposed the old woman was a beggar, and replied 
that she was sorry she had nothing to give her. But the woman 
continued to demand two pennies. Finally Marika understood 
that she had to pay that amount for a seat on the bench or get up 
and walk. Fortunately Mother arrived in time to provide the two 
pennies. 


[ 50 ] 




An old , poorly dressed woman asked for money 










“I think' it's funny to have to pay for a bench," Marika said, 
still feeling her embarrassment. 

“I don't think so," Mother replied. “It's a way for a few old 
people to earn a little money. In return it is their duty to keep 
the seats clean." 

After darkness fell, they walked back to the Margit Hid, where 
Mother called to Marika's attention one of the most beautiful 
views of all Europe. They stood on the bridge, delighted. The 
stars were shining, and Buda, on the hillside, twinkled with thou- 
sands of lights. High on the hilltop rose the King's Palace. Its 
outline was reflected on the smooth, black surface of the river. 
On the opposite side stretched the splendid Parliament Building, 
like a brave guard watching over the vast city, the brightly 
lighted Pest behind it. 

Marika sighed. “Oh, Mother, it's lovely, isn't it?" 

“Yes, Marika, it is lovely," agreed Mrs. Baan, pleased that her 
little daughter, too, saw beauty in this view of her beloved capital. 

Another day, Mother rode with Marika to the Andrassy Ut, 
the world's straightest and widest boulevard. Under it runs the 
first underground railroad ever built. On their way to the Varos 
Liget, the city park, they passed the Opera House. 

In the park there were theatres, amusements, open-air res¬ 
taurants, and coffee houses. They visited the zoo and the art 
museum. Afterwards, while enjoying a boat ride on the artificial 
lake, Marika marveled at the beauty of the ancient castle, Vajda 
Hunyad. 

Still another day was spent in the National Museum, where 
Marika learned about the beginning and early life of the Hun¬ 
garian people, their great national characters, and events that had 
made history. 

And that ended the sight-seeing, for from then on, Marika 
had to devote her time to schoolwork in order to catch up with 
her classmates. [ 52 ] 



Chapter VIII 
MIKULAS 

Like so many feathers shaken out of a pillow, the snow fell 
and covered Budapest. Winter had come, bringing merry days of 
ice-skating and sleighriding, which made the busy hours at school 
easier for Marika to bear. 

"Tomorrow is Mikulas Day,” announced Mrs. Baan one morn¬ 
ing. Answering the question in Marika's eyes, she went on, 
"Mikulas is the Hungarian word for St. Nicholas. If you want 
Santa Claus to bring you something, you must put your shoes on 
the window sill tonight.” 

"But, Mother,” replied Marika, surprised, "tomorrow is only 
the sixth of December. It's much too early for Santa to come!” 

"In Hungary,” Mother explained, "Santa Claus comes on 
Mikulas Day instead of Christmas Day.” 

"Then Hungarian children have no Christmas, and no pres¬ 
ents?” 

"Oh, yes, they have. The gifts which they find under the 
Christmas tree are from the Krist Kindel, the Christ Child, whose 
birthday they celebrate ” 


[53 ] 




























"O—o—oh, I like that, because then we really have two 
Christmas days.” 

Marika very carefully placed her shoes on the window sill that 
night, and hopped out of bed early the next morning to see what 
the Mikulas had left in them. Besides bags of candy, a whistle, 
and a tiny doll in the toe of one shoe, she discovered two little 
figures. One of them was the Mikulas. 

"Why, he's dressed like a bishop!” exclaimed Marika. 

"That is because St. Nicholas was an Italian bishop who be' 
came the special saint of children. Early Americans named him 
Santa Claus and gave him a red jacket and fat cheeks.” 

"Who is the other, the ugly one with the long tail?” 

"It is Krampus, the servant of Mikulas. All bad children fear 
him, but those who have been good find candy hidden in his 
switch.” 

Marika must have been a good girl, for the candy that she 
found in the switch was the prettiest candy she had ever seen. 

The spirit of the Mikulas was in the classroom, too, that day. 
The little girls, for only little girls went to Marika's school, found 
it very hard to pay attention. Marika knew that something was 
going to happen. And something did happen! 

In the midst of arithmetic problems the door opened, and an 
old man who looked like the little figure of the Mikulas entered. 
He was dressed in a white robe, and on his head was a miter, the 
kind of tall, fancy headdress worn by bishops. In one hand he 
carried a bishop's staff, and in the other, a long chain by which 
he led the Krampus. 

The Mikulas sat at the teacher's desk and opened a large 
golden book. Stroking his white beard, he read the names of the 
good children. Those whose names were called received gifts 
from the bulging bag strapped to the back of the Krampus. From 

[ 54 ] 



The Mikulds was dressed in a white robe 


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a black book the Mikulas then read the names of the little girls 
who had been naughty. 

“Baan Marika!” he called. 

Marika slowly approached the desk. 

“Now, Marika, you are a good little girl, but you are often 
late, and you have the bad habit of drooping your shoulders. 
Have you ever seen a camel?’ 1 

“Oh, yes! Ever so many! And I’ve seen monkeys, too!” 

“Well,” continued Mikulas, smiling not at all, “unless you are 
more careful of the way you hold your shoulders, you will have 
a hump just like a camel.” 

The Krampus stepped forward. 

Marika did not wait to see what was in store for her. She 
thought only of the switch and the pain that it might cause. With 
lightning speed she turned about and dashed from the classroom, 
leaving a room of astonished children staring after her. Even the 
Mikulas was surprised at her unexpected action. 

“I like Santa Claus better,” Marika later told her mother. “He 
has reindeer, not an ugly old Krampus, to carry the presents.” 



Chapter IX 
CHRISTMAS 

Eighteen days—seventeen days—sixteen— Marika, like mil- 
lions of other children, counted the days until Christmas. 

In the classroom everybody was talking about who would be 
in the Christmas play. Marika had no idea how that would be 
decided, but she knew that she loved to act more than anything 
in the world. And she was more experienced than any of her 
classmates. Surely the teacher would remember that and maybe, 
Marika eagerly hoped, she would be given the most important part! 

But when the parts were passed out, Marika was not men¬ 
tioned. She could hardly believe it, and was so hurt that it took 
all her will to keep the tears from rolling down her cheeks. After 
school she could hold back her feelings no longer and sobbed her 
disappointment to her mother. 

“Never mind, Marika,” comforted Mrs. Baan. “You’ll have 
another chance. You must not blame the teacher for choosing 
girls she knows. It is hard work to train children for a play, and 
she may feel that you are not yet familiar enough with the Hun¬ 
garian language, although I think that you speak very well. Now, 
I wouldn’t cry any more.” 


[ 57 ] 



Marika dried her tears and then curled up in a big chair to 
read her favorite book, and forget. 

Scarcely a week before Christmas, one of the girls was forced 
to give up her part. Mumps was the cause of it. That worried the 
teacher, for she declared that there was no child in the class who 
could learn the part in so short a time. 

Marika sat silent for a while. She wanted the part so badly, 
but if she offered to learn it, would the teacher refuse her? Finally 
she stood up and in a small voice, said, “I think I can learn it if 
you will only let me try. 1 ' 

And that is how Marika came to have the most difficult part 
in the play after all. She was to be a peasant boy who explained 
to foreign visitors how Christmas is celebrated in Hungary. 

That pleased Marika immensely. She did not know anything 
about it herself. 

She learned that the Krist Kindel brings the Christmas tree 
to the Hungarian home, all decorated and lighted with little can¬ 
dles, at eight o'clock on the night of December 24th. After his 
arrival bells ring, and the double doors of the hall are opened to 
reveal the tree in all its splendor, and surrounded by gifts, at the 
end of the room. 

Then carolers come, bearing a mounted stand on which are 
carved wooden figures representing the story of the Nativity, the 
birth of Christ. Singing carols, the children carry it from house 
to house. They are rewarded with pennies and dios-makos pat\o , 
which are nut and poppyseed rolls, and other Christmas goodies. 

After supper, which is usually a grand affair, the children go 
to bed, carrying their favorite toys. The grown-ups attend mid¬ 
night mass. All theatres and public houses are closed that night. 
Those living away from home make every effort to be with their 
families. People who have no relatives are invited to the homes 
of friends. No one spends Christmas Eve alone. 

[ 58 ] 



“Isn't that nice?" thought Marika. “It's also a very good idea 
to receive the presents on Christmas Eve, because then I won't 
have to spend the night listening for Santa Claus to come down 
the chimney." 

Long before the final rehearsal, Marika not only knew her 
part but the whole play as well. The teacher was more than 
satisfied. Yet, in spite of this, the play was almost called off. 

[ 59 ] 





















A few days before Christmas, during the needlework hour— 
little girls in Hungary have to learn to do fancywork—Marika ran 
an embroidery needle under her thumbnail. When Christmas Eve 
arrived, the whole thumb was swollen and hurt terribly. She 
nearly fainted when the doctor treated it, but being a good little 
trouper, she gritted her teeth and went on with the play as if 
nothing had happened. Only the bandage on her hand carried the 
tale of her painful thumb. 

The play was a huge success. Marika looked rather funny as 
a peasant boy. Her mother made her costume out of four white 
petticoats! One was pulled over each of her legs and arms and 
tied to look like the wide linen trousers and full, open shirtsleeves 
of a Hungarian peasant. A fancy braided vest and a gay hand¬ 
kerchief around her waist added the finishing touch. 

And then of course her hair was covered with a small round 
hat. She looked quite dashing, especially with a big black mus¬ 
tache, which she twisted now and then just as she had seen the 
peasants do. 

After the play a picture was taken of the cast. The photog¬ 
rapher had a difficult time persuading all the children to be quiet 
and stand still at the same time. At last he was ready and began 
to count: 

“One, two—now, children, smile—” 

At that very moment Marika felt her beautiful mustache be¬ 
gin to slip. She quickly puckered her lips in a desperate effort to 
keep the mustache in place. 

“Three!” shouted the photographer, and the picture was taken. 

How funny Marika looked in it! The mustache hung in mid¬ 
air; her lips were puckered; her forehead wrinkled; and there was 
a desperate look in her eyes. 

“Maybe, when I grow up,” she said, “I’ll be a comedienne, 
and make people laugh instead of cry.” 

[ 60 ] 


Chapter X 
THE VIZSGA 

After the Christmas vacation Marika had to work hard at 
school. Then, almost before she realised it, March and spring 
had arrived, and the snow began to melt. Marika, who seldom 
had lived in one place so long, became restless. Not that she no 
longer liked Budapest. She did. But a feeling that she wanted to 
go home grew stronger with every blade of grass that shot up 
from the ground. 

In May the city was twice as beautiful as it had been in the 
fall. Acacia trees heavy with white blooms turned the country 
into a lovely sight. The blossoms, similar to sweet peas, grew in 
l° n g grape-like clusters and covered the branches. The perfume 
of the flowers floated everywhere. Afterwards Marika never saw 
an acacia tree nor smelled its perfume without remembering this 
spring in Hungary. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Baan noticed that her little daughter often 
looked sad, and she thought she knew the reason. 

“Have patience, darling,” she said cheeringly. “As soon as 
school is closed, we will start on our trip back to New York.” 

The last day of school was given over to the vizsga , or final 
examination—a very different examination day from the ones 
Marika had known in the United States. Each room was dec- 
orated for the occasion, and every class had its own celebration. 
Each little girl was in her seat, hoping for the best. The mothers 
and fathers sat in rows behind the teacher's desk. That is, all did 
except Mr. and Mrs. Baan, who were given a very special place. 

At the teacher's desk sat the superintendent and the members 
of the school board. The teacher stood or moved about the class- 
room, during the examination. It lasted several hours, and was 
divided into as many periods as there were subjects of study. The 
superintendent asked the questions, and the teacher named the 
pupils who were to give the answers. 

[61 ] 


Usually she knew which of the pupils could give the best an' 
swer, and she called on that one, but sometimes the superintendent 
indicated the pupil who was to answer and sometimes that pupil 
failed. Then the girl felt more than the usual disgrace, for she had 
publicly disappointed her parents. 

The review of the last subject was drawing to an end when the 
superintendent’s voice boomed out: 

“Now I should like to hear a short outline of Hungarian his' 
tory. Who will volunteer?” 

Many hands were raised. The superintendent smiled broadly 
at the children’s eagerness. The teacher’s eyes darted around the 
room. The clock tick-tocked, tick'tocked, over the moment of 
waiting. Then—“Baan Marika!” 

There was a buzz among the visitors. 

“She is the great Baan’s daughter!” stated one. 

Another whispered, “She was brought up in America; had 
an English education. She could not speak Hungarian a year 
ago.” 

Her head held high, Marika began in a clear voice. Together 
with other facts, she told how the Hungarian people, more than 
a thousand years ago, came westward from the Ural Mountains 
and settled on the stretch of land between the two rivers, Duna 
and Tisza. How they had to defend their new home against 
Turks, Tartars, and surrounding enemies, who from time to time 
invaded their territory. 

Marika told further how they preserved their language all 
through the centuries, in spite of long periods of oppression, and 
how they led other small nations in culture. She told how Hun' 
gary lost a greater part of her land after the World War, and how 
a large number of her people were placed under the rule of other 
countries. Marika concluded with the Credo, the prayer of every 
true Hungarian. 


[ 62 ] 



Her head held high, Marika began in a clear voice 



















































































After she finished speaking, there was a moment of silence. 
Then visitors and classmates alike expressed their admiration and 
approval by loud and long clapping. Even the superintendent 
joined in and praised Marika. 

But Marika was deaf to all this. She couldn't get home fast 
enough. Her mind leaped to the hour when Mother and Daddy 
and she would leave for New York, and home. The trunks were 
packed and waiting. Perhaps she would meet Hamsun again! 

The thought of seeing America and her old friends once more 
made her eager to be off. Oh, indeed, she loved Hungary, that 
beautiful native land of hers, and she was not altogether happy 
to leave it and the dear grandmother. And what about Ultimo? 
She hadn't thought of that before. 

She ran to her father and asked anxiously, “Ultimo is going 
to the United States with us, isn't she, Daddy?" 

“Marika, how can we take a dog on such a long trip? I'm 
afraid she'll have to stay with Grandmother." 

Ultimo was following Marika about with trusting, appealing 
eyes, her little tail wagging hopefully. 

“Oh, Ultimo! I can't leave you!" despaired Marika with her 
arms around the dog's neck. 

The last trunk was being carried from the house. 

“Please, please, Daddy, let me take Ultimo along!" she begged, 
her voice heavy with sobs. 

Daddy thought again as he tenderly stroked her hair. 

“Well, Little Squirrel, if it means so much to you, we must 
find a way to take Ultimo with us." 

Marika stopped in her joy and asked seriously, “Mother, what 
if American dogs call Ultimo a foreigner, too?" 

“Oh, no, Marika dear! Only people do that. Dogs have a uni- 
versal language. They all understand each other." 

And so ended Marika's year in Hungary. 

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